


Greg Lestrade- Less Judgemental Than the Average Friend

by thescribblenaut



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Greg Lestrade whump, Hospitals, Sally Donovan is a prat, actually yes there were detectives harmed, no detectives were harmed in the making of this fic, whump?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 07:45:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1736807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescribblenaut/pseuds/thescribblenaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd never even considered the possible reversal of roles. </p><p>Playing the same waiting game for Lestrade?</p><p>Entirely different.</p><p> </p><p>A long-ish one-shot featuring hospitals, biscuits, a nurse who is both evil and brilliant, and a Sherlock who is learning about the act of worry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greg Lestrade- Less Judgemental Than the Average Friend

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own, nor do I profit from. Although if the BBC are hiring...
> 
> Sherlock may be possibly a teensy bit OOC. This is deliberate. He is concerned. It is confusing him. 
> 
> And if you like Sally Donovan, cover your eyes. Much Sally bashing, because it was convenient as she already hates Sherlock and I am a lazy sod who could not be bothered to make up another character for one scene.

Lestrade, despite his consultant's pompous manner, cared about Sherlock. Every time Donovan told him about an attack, or hospital trip, his stomach clenched into a complicated knot that no amount of reassurance could undo. He had to see for himself. And no, his boss was not impressed by this, but having the brother of your idiotic consultant existing as the British Government had its perks.

But this care, this worry, illogical and inconvenient though it may be, this was why, almost every time Sherlock woke up in hospital, Greg's face was the first he saw. It was also why, on the rare occasions that Greg wasn't there, Sherlock asked for him. Because he was used to it. It was a comforting thing (and he wouldn't he admitting that, no). No matter what he'd done, Lestrade would be there, and would normally stand up for him against Mycroft. Which was useful. If unexpected. Lestrade had seen him at his worst, and still not cast him off as a failure, the first to do so. It was even more unexpected than his arguing on his behalf against Mycroft.

The Detective Inspector clearly had more guts than brains.

So despite his pride never allowing him to admit it, Sherlock vastly preferred waking up to a fussing, tired, worried, frustrated, Lestrade than his brother, who was ominously and silently disapproving in the corner. Or John, who was so stressed it was impossible to think around him. Or even worse, nobody at all.

And then there were the times like this. Where every damned thing hurt like hell, like burning, only not like burning at all, now he thought about it, and opening his eyes was far too painful to be considered reasonable.

Sherlock staggered to full consciousness to have the first sense being absolute agony. He frowned as his head thumped, letting out an unwilling moan. Instantly, a pair of hands started fussing, before one settled on his shoulder, and the other rested lightly on his wrist. Sherlock relaxed slightly, swallowing against the pain. Lestrade rubbed a soothing line on his pulse point, muttering something.  
"Hm?"  
"I was saying, you utter nutter, that you really had us all worried this time." Lestrade scolded slightly. But he didn't go away, and he didn't judge. He wasn't medical enough to be constantly monitoring (like John) which was far too loud, and he wasn't Mycroft, who lurked with an oppressive silence before waddling out like some sort of disappointed, overweight penguin. With an umbrella.

Sherlock nodded stiffly, already slipping back into sleep. He vastly preferred it when Lestrade was there when he woke up.

***

He'd never even considered the possible reversal of roles.

Playing the same endless waiting game for Lestrade?

Entirely different.

It was the first time Lestrade himself had been the patient. An explosion sent the DI flying backwards, and he'd been knocked out cold on impact. Scans didn't show any hemorrhaging, or other unpleasant things, and aside from a couple of bruised bones, cracked ribs- which had initially been a worry- he appeared fine. But the doctors (the term was used loosely) had said that they'd only know if Lestrade would be okay when he woke up. Which was entirely ridiculous in Sherlock's opinion, because people were constantly blathering on about how marvellous medical science was, and how far it had come, and other things like cancer nearly being cured, and yet they couldn't tell if someone could still fully function without their waking up, when someone even RELATIVELY important came along-

Basically, Sherlock was going mad. He refused all offers of food, sleep, water, and only left if the nurses forced him, or he desperately needed the toilet. He was basically surviving on hospital tea and coffee. Which he hadn't volunteered for, a nurse named Amélie as forcing them on him. She never mentioned leaving Lestrade, despite there being no familial connection. She just seemed to know. Somehow. That he wouldn't leave. Mrs Hudson would call it woman's intuition, probably.

Sherlock was silently thankful for this nurse's existence, although he'd never admit it. The others would have constantly tried to shift him.

He'd been watching Lestrade for about two days. His body had decided to shut down temporarily to heal, quicker and with more efficiency. The brief times Sherlock slept, he almost always woke from dreams of 'bad news' and 'irreparable damage to the spinal column' and 'bleeds' in Lestrade's brain, meaning he wouldn't recognise anything of his life.

He avoided sleep, understandably.

When Lestrade did wake up, it was slow. Very slow. A brief frown was the first sign. And then nothing for half an hour. Sherlock had the nurse-called-Amélie on tenterhooks, just from watching his body language. Lestrade sighed in his sleep finally, shifting into a REM cycle almost seamlessly.

Sherlock was, of course, utterly composed.

And by that, it is meant that he was pacing up and down Lestrade's room, scowling, with his hands steepled in front of his mouth. Amélie didn't comment, but pulled the coffee out of his liquid diet. Her self-imposed ward always pulled a face at it anyway. She watched as the man named Greg Lestrade slowly proceeded to consciousness, and his single visitor grew more and more anxious. Electricity crackled around his mad hair, tousled by frustrated and worried hands over the course of the past forty-eight hours.

When Lestrade came to, it was with a heavy sigh and a frown. He reached up shakily and pinched the bridge of his nose, kneading at the growing headache between his eyebrows. He only opened his eyes when a startled 'oh', accompanied by a flap of heavy material, prompted him to. Damn his natural curiosity.

And damn his headache. Because, there was no way in hell (frozen or not), that Sherlock Bloody Holmes was sat next to his bed, looking like death turned halfway to lukewarm. His skin had turned twenty shades greyer, he looked like a startled cat, and a worried, unhealthy one at that.  
"What happened to you?" Greg asked roughly, his throat scratchy. Sherlock let out a tiny hysterical huff of laughter, folding his arms- half hugging himself.  
"Me? You're lying in a hospital bed and you're worried, about _me_?" He asked slightly incredulously. Greg nodded. Of course he was asking. He'd put too much effort into Sherlock to not be bothered.  
"And before you ask, yes, I have a headache, no, my vision isn't going weird, yes I can remember everything-"  
"Really? Are you sure?" Sherlock asked challengingly. Greg narrowed his eyes at the consultant. Something was severely off. He just had to figure it out.  
"What's my full name?" Sherlock continued brazenly.  
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you berk. Not that you ever remember mine."  
"I do."  
"Not."  
"I do. I just like annoying you."  
"Go on then. What is it?"  
"Irrelevant."  
"Prove it. What's my first name?"  
"I don't need to."  
"Go on. I'm injured and bored."  
"No."

Greg turned puppy dog eyes on his consultant, knowing they worked on most people. Sherlock scoffed at him, smirking.  
"I'm not Donovan, Lestrade." He said smugly. Greg huffed, flopping back on his pillows.  
"That, would be terrifying." He said lightly. Before Sherlock could react, he pressed on.  
"So why are you here?" He asked quickly. Sherlock jiggled his left knee up and down from the chair, leaning back.  
"Why do you think?" He asked, unusually quietly.  
"Don't evade the question. If I had any idea, I wouldn't be asking outright, would I?" Greg chastised gently. Sherlock pursed his lips briefly.  
"Sentiment." He muttered into his coat. Greg ogled from his bed.  
"Breathe, Lestrade." Sherlock snapped, noticing the 'slapped-in-the-face-with-a-fish' expression."Why do people usually visit you on hospital?!"  
"They don't. Plus, I'm not in the habit of getting myself injured or sick, unlike some people." Greg replied, still slightly stunned. Sherlock looked away for a minute, before leaning forward in his chair, elbows on knees.  
"You're always there when I get myself landed in a hospital. It's... comforting. I don't know why. So don't ask. It just is. You're quiet, and there, and you don't judge me. Which is unusual, because that's human nature, especially when it comes to me, and you argue with Mycroft on my behalf, and maybe I just wanted to return the favour." Sherlock said quickly to Greg's wrist. He then snapped his gaze up to the other man's, eyes wide.  
"Which was absolute tedium, by the way."  
"By which he means he was worried sick." A femenine voice interrupted. Amélie-the-nurse entered with a selection of drinks. Sherlock scowled in her general direction, sitting back haughtily in his chair. Greg grinned at her, slightly puzzled. She returned the smile.  
"You were put out for two days, during which he alternately freaked out, had nightmares, and refused to leave your side." She informed an increasingly shocked Greg. The DI turned to Sherlock, who growled low in his throat, oddly.  
"Don't give yourself whiplash, Lestrade." He snapped defensively. Greg arched an eyebrow, making Sherlock retreat into his coat, curling up on himself in the ridiculously wide chair. Amélie contained her smile.  
"Apple, orange, or water Mr Lestrade?" She asked pleasantly. Greg pulled a face.  
"Can't I have tea?"  
"I wouldn't advise it. One, your stomach might not handle it, and two, it's basically liquidised mud here." She wrinkled her nose. Greg huffed a laugh.  
"Water, then, please." He requested, just refraining from throttling Sherlock as he rolled his eyes and muttered darkly into his scarf. Amélie poured his drink, then left with her trolley, winking at Greg, who instantly decided that she was the best nurse he'd ever met, or was likely to. Sherlock, being Sherlock, glared as she left, now, of course, considering her a complete idiot, as dull as the next person. Traitor.  
"So. By tedium, you meant worrying." Greg teased. Sherlock released a cat-like hiss, curling up tighter.  
"But you were actually bothered?" Greg asked incredulously. Sherlock glared daggers.  
"Obviously. You were flung about twenty feet from your original position, about six feet high, and were knocked unconscious immediately on impact." He stated bluntly, an odd expression on his features. The next bit was spoken quieter, with a frighteningly haunted glaze to his eyes.  
"You didn't get up, and laugh it off, or check on anyone else. You were just...crumpled. On the tarmac. I was the first to reach you, and then Donovan yanked me away, and the paramedics wouldn't let me ride in the ambulance, and John wasn't there, and after getting a cab, I wasn't allowed to see you for hours-"  
"Hey! I'm okay!" Greg sat up, almost clenching Sherlock's nearest hand in his own, and then realising that that would be a very bad idea with Sherlock in this mood.  
"But you weren't." Sherlock said in a small voice. He'd retreated back into his coat again, hugging himself tightly.

Before Greg could react, Sally Donovan marched in.  
"Still here, Freak? Finally realised that he's a person? You do realise that he wouldn't be here if it wasn't for your mad plans, don't you?"  
"Yes, obviously I'm still here. I already knew he was a person. And yes, I do." Sherlock reeled off. Sally arched an eyebrow, cynical. She didn't notice Greg's conscious state, or his sudden urge to throttle her. She was a good detective, but a complete arse in person.  
"Well you need to give a statement. Preferably quickly, I've got places to be." Sally said, drawing up a chair opposite Sherlock, and plonking a folder and statement sheet onto his lap. Greg scowled as Sherlock sighed, pulling out a pen. Then his dark look became more concerned. He must be exhausted if he was actually obeying an order from Sally. How many nightmares had he had, and consequently, how many hours of sleep had he avoided?  
"So. You finally gonna leave us to do our jobs then? Now you've put a decent man in hospital." Sally asked angrily. Greg twitched his fingers in frustration as Sherlock did nothing. No remarks. No glares. And Sally was just getting started, he could tell. Sherlock's jaw clenched just slightly as Sally blistered on her war path.  
"Of course not, you're _you_. You probably don't even care. You do realise how close to brain damage he was, right?" Sally continued, unawares. "Only it was pretty bloody close, apparently. And you clogging up the air in here won't have helped matters."  
"Congratulations, Donovan. Your first original insult." Sherlock ground out. He signed the papers with a scrawl, shoving them at the Sergeant. She sat there, glaring at him.  
"You hurt him again, even indirectly-"  
"That's enough!" Greg shouted. Sally jumped, dropping her papers. Sherlock turned wide, startled eyes on Greg, who in turn looked like his usually chocolate eyes were on fire.  
"Sir-"  
"No, Donovan. The only reason I'm in here, for your much needed information, is because some arse decided to blow up a building! This arsonistic arse, wasn't  _this_ arse. So explosion happened and I was stupid enough to be standing too close. Clear?"  
"But-"  
"Is. That. Clear, Sergeant?"  
"Yes sir."  
"As a side note, he doesn't clog up any air, he's not even smoking. I happen to think it smells horrifically clean in here. And, before you go, he will continue to work cases as I ask him too, and you, will stop with the prejudiced remarks. Okay?"  
"Sir-!"  
"No. Buts. You were bang out of order just then, and if you can't show any professional courtesy, then walk away when our consultant arrives. Do you understand?"  
"Yes sir." Sally appeased sulkily.  
"Good, now go. I am not, I repeat, _not_ , in the mood for your nonsense." Greg snapped, pointing out the door. Sally nodded, ignoring Sherlock as she stalked out.

Greg sat back, glowering.  
"Sorry about her." He said, closing his eyes.  
"Thank you." Sherlock murmured.  
"Hm?"  
"Thank you. For defending me." Sherlock repeated. Greg looked at him. He looked dazed, upset even. Surprised.  
"Shouldn't have had to." Greg muttered. "But you're welcome. Any time."

Sherlock cleared his throat as John arrived.  
"What did I miss? Must have been pretty spectacular, Donovan looked like she was about to burst something." The doctor remarked cheerfully. "A biscuit feast, courtesy of Mrs Hudson." He added, swinging a plastic bag gently. Greg grinned, sensing Sherlock's silent wish to keep the entire thing under wraps, just in case he had to admit he cared, probably.  
"Your landlady's a saint. I'm starving." He remarked, diving on the tin placed on a table across his knees. He chucked one at Sherlock, who caught it subconsciously. The consultant looked confused for a second.  
"You look miserable. And I can't buy you a drink. So. Biscuit it is." Greg said, grinning. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

But Greg didn't hear him complaining.


End file.
